when i know

when the ways the light falls stops stringing up cords of recognition or warmth,
when the streams of neural networks stop firing at the sight of warm wood and plush fabric
that’s when I know that I need help and I’m focusing on the stickiness of the floor over the warmth and the stains on the counter instead of the coolness
when I know that I’ve fallen back into the old patterns of forgetting home and looking past what I have and what I need to the feeling of wanting a want,
looking for a hunger and connection to rawness that has been scrubbed out and away from my grasp.